


Shut Up

by bepreparedf0rhell



Category: Slipknot (Band)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:22:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21803641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bepreparedf0rhell/pseuds/bepreparedf0rhell
Summary: In which Jim just needs to calm the fuck down.
Relationships: Jim Root/Mick Thomson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 48





	Shut Up

**Author's Note:**

> so, this is the first 4/7 thing i've ever written. i don't even really know where it came from; nothing else i was writing was working and so i just started this. i'm very nervous about it and not sure if i actually like it, but i've finished it and don't think it's entirely terrible so figured i'd post it? so here it is.

Jim walks to Mick’s front door slowly, his head hung low. He’s not sure why he’s ended up there in the middle of the night, not sure why Mick was the only person that came to mind when he decided he needed to be around another human being to try and yank him out of the funk he’s very effectively fallen into. 

He knocks lightly, knowing damn well this could easily go badly. It’s hard to know what mood you’re going to find Mick in normally, let alone when it’s the middle of the night after they’ve just gotten home from tour. Mick loves his own bed, bitches constantly on tour about missing his bed, and Jim’s fully aware that pulling him from between those precious covers might just get him punched in the face. 

The house is completely dark and stays that way as he stands there. He’s just about to turn and make his way back to his car when his phone starts loudly ringing in his pocket. The sound scares the shit out of him, making every inch of his 6’6” frame tense so hard it hurts. Cursing, he pulls the phone out of his pocket to see Mick’s name and photo flashing across the screen.

“Yeah?” Jim questions quietly, timidly. Mick’s immediately grumbling back at him. 

“Tell me you’re not actually outside my fuckin’ door at three in the morning, you jackass.”

“Sorry.” 

Jim looks up into the camera he knows is installed above the door, hoping maybe Mick will be able to tell how pathetic he feels and will take pity on him.

“I just unlocked the door. Get in here.”

Mick hangs up, but Jim can’t help but notice he doesn’t sound quite as annoyed as one might’ve expected. He yanks open the door, shuts and locks it, and glances around Mick’s dark living room. His suitcases from tour are thrown on the floor just inside the door along with a couple of guitar cases, and the house overall smells too clean and unlived in. Mick’s got a cousin that watches the place when he’s on tour and he always complains she cleans too much. Jim had never really understood that complaint until walking into the living room that almost smelled like a freshly cleaned public bathroom or something. 

He doesn’t turn any lights on, choosing to stumble through the room in the dark instead. He trips on the edge of the couch, curses loudly, and finally makes his way to the stairs. 

Mick’s bedroom is at the end of the hallway and Jim can see dim light making its way under the door. He hesitates. He’s been in Mick’s house a million times, even been in his bedroom a fair amount too. Something about the current moment feels different, though. It’s late - around three according to Mick, and something about all of this feels so personal, like it’s crossing some sort of line. Sure, Jim had wanted this. He’d wanted to be in Mick’s presence, to feel his warmth whether physically or metaphorically. But now that he was here, in his house, outside his bedroom in the middle of the night, nerves rose in his chest. 

“Peach, where the fuck are you?” Mick calls from the bedroom, interrupting Jim’s thoughts with the use of the nickname that no one else really used anymore. For some reason, Mick was pretty much the only one that had held onto it, and the sound of it makes Jim’s nerves tie even tighter into a knot. He swallows hard, making his way down the hallway. His hand hovers above the doorknob for a few long seconds before he finally turns it and steps into the room.

Mick’s in bed, his long black hair fanned out around him on his pillow. He looks almost angelic, unlike Jim’s ever seen him. All of the grit and toughness that usually shrouds him is nowhere to be found and he looks downright innocent almost. Jim feels a pang deep in his gut that he can’t quite describe and takes a deep breath to try and steady himself. 

Mick doesn’t look up when Jim enters and doesn’t say anything either. Jim feels awkward just standing there staring at him, so he steps further into the room and moves to sit in a chair that’s shoved in one corner. Mick sits up, raising an eyebrow. He’s shirtless, something Jim hadn’t noticed before because of the blankets covering him. He wonders absently if he’s more than shirtless, and mentally scolds himself for letting his mind wander there. 

“What are you doing?” Mick asks, the question catching Jim off guard. He stumbles dumbly over his thoughts, thankful Mick can’t hear them. 

“Sitting?” he phrases it like a question, his voice wavering and unsure. Mick rolls his eyes dramatically and sighs.

“Get into the fucking bed, Peach,” he tells him, and Jim feels his palms slick down with nervous sweat. Mick moves off to the side, pulling the blankets back. Jim lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding when Mick’s lap comes into clear view covered securely by a pair of basketball shorts. Jim’s not sure whether he’s happy or disappointed about this development. 

“Hey, you in there?” Mick calls, snapping Jim out of his thoughts. He blinks hard, nodding and doing as he was told. He slips out of his sneakers and then climbs into the bed, his long limbs feeling too long and like they’re in the way as they tend to do when he’s nervous. He’s sure he’s taking up too much space, sure Mick could’ve never meant that he wanted him this close to him.

“I’m… sorry I woke you,” Jim mumbles, not looking up at Mick. He’s trying his best to seem cool, nonchalant, even though he’s sure Mick thinks he’s being a fucking weirdo. Sure enough, Mick sighs again, and Jim peeks at him through his lashes to see him shaking his head. 

“I don’t care that you woke me. What’s wrong with you, Peach?” he asks, and Jim can’t help but choke up a little at how soft Mick’s voice has suddenly gone. 

“I just don’t want to be alone at my place, that’s all. I’m sorry I bothered you,” he says, knowing full well that Mick will be able to hear the tears in his voice and know there’s more to it than that. In reality, Jim’s got no clue why he’d immediately felt so unsettled upon stepping into his own house, no clue why he’d been fending off a panic attack since the second he stepped off the tour bus earlier in the day. Everything just felt off and wrong and it wasn’t just that he didn’t want to be alone - he didn’t want to be without Mick. 

“Will you look at me, please? I hate it when you won’t fucking look at me,” Mick says, his tone even more gentle and easy than before. Jim sighs, angling his head upwards even though he doesn’t particularly want to. His eyes still don’t quite connect with Mick’s at first, and when they do he’s glad he’s already sitting down because he’s sure that if he hadn’t been, Mick’s clear blue eyes might’ve made his knees go weak. “Stop apologizing to me. I wouldn’t have let you in if I didn’t want to.”

“I know,” Jim admits quietly, and it’s true. Though he’s full clear to the top with self-doubt, he does also know for sure that he wouldn’t be there at all if Mick didn’t want him to be. 

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Mick tries again, and Jim shakes his head. 

“I don’t want to talk. I just…” he trails off and Mick nods. 

“Okay. C’mere,” Mick says, and Jim’s gaze snaps back up to him, an eyebrow raised in surprise and confusion. 

Mick’s holding his arm out like it’s the most normal thing in the world, like he’s expecting Jim to just… what? Cuddle into his chest like it’s no big deal at all, like it’s just another Saturday night for them? The two of them have known each other for over twenty years and the closest they’d ever gotten to physical closeness like this was… well, it was nowhere near anything like this, and it sure as hell didn’t involve Jim sitting awkwardly in bed next to a shirtless Mick, though he couldn’t deny that those were absolutely images that had flashed through his head a million times before. 

“Jesus, Peach, will you fucking relax? You’re stressing me the fuck out.”

The gentleness is gone from Mick’s voice, replaced with impatience. He reaches for Jim and pulls him close, wrapping his arm around his shoulders and sort of forcing him down into a halfway horizontal position. Jim’s face ends up nestled into Mick’s chest and it takes him a few long moments but eventually he does manage to force himself to relax into the embrace. 

If he’s being honest with himself, this is what he wanted, what he’s wanted for as long as he can remember. He’s always dreamed of being close in this way to Mick, of having him comfort him. Mick’s not usually much of a comforting type just in general; he’s all rough edges and short fuses, but Jim’s glimpsed this softer side of him a few times over the years and has always been absolutely ravenous for more.

His heart races in his chest as he tries to settle into the cuddle, tries to act like he’s not absolutely caught off guard by it. Sure, he’d ended up at Mick’s house in the middle of the night, and sure he’d expected Mick to want to get his sleep. He’d never in a million years expected to end up in bed with him, though. More than anything he’d mostly expected to be told to fuck off. He’d fully expected to have to return back to his own empty house, tail between his legs and ego so bruised he could almost physically feel it. 

“Stop it,” Mick mumbles into Jim’s hair, the sound of his voice startling him out of his thoughts. 

“What?” he asks, and Mick scoffs. 

“I can almost hear the gears turning in your head. There’s practically fucking smoke coming out of your ears,” Mick informs him. “Stop thinking. Just be here.”

“I just… don’t want shit to be weird,” Jim admits quietly, and he can feel Mick shaking his head head above him. 

“God fucking damn it,” Mick grumbles, pulling out of the embrace and adjusting his position so that he’s fully sitting up. He pulls Jim up with him, almost making his head smack against the headboard as he falls back against the pillows. Mick’s eyes are fierce, bright but unreadable. 

“What are you doing?” Jim asks dumbly, mentally cursing the fact that he still can’t quite calm himself down. His heart’s still racing, his thoughts are still flying through his head so quickly they’re barely coherent, and on top of it he’s practically aching to feel Mick’s skin against his again.

“Kiss me,” Mick says confidently, nonchalantly. The words barely seem to faze him, but they almost give Jim an actual heart attack right on the spot. “Don’t ask me what I said. You heard what I said and you know it. If you can’t just let this happen, if you need some sort of assurance of just what it is, fine. Kiss me,” Mick repeats, and Jim just blinks hard at him for a few long moments. 

Mick rolls his eyes, leaning in and seemingly deciding he’s just going to do the damn thing himself. His lips are hot on Jim’s, slow at first but demanding. Jim’s brain feels like it goes fully fucking numb as he leans in and kisses him back, his arms making their way around his neck. Slowly, he gains his confidence and gets a little adventurous, testing his limits. His hands explore the bare skin of Mick’s back, knot themselves into his long hair. 

Mick pulls away a while later, and Jim almost audibly whimpers at the absence of Mick’s lips on his. Mick studies him and his gaze feels heavy. Jim’s sure he’s about to tell him he’s changed his mind, tell him he’s a fucking awful kisser and he needs to get out of his bed. 

Jim’s preparing himself for this, bracing himself for the impact of having to get up and go home. He’s so wrapped up in these thoughts that when Mick’s hand raises to his cheek a moment later and runs a thumb across the edge of his long beard, it startles him. He jumps slightly and Mick laughs. 

“You’re an idiot. You’re fucking beautiful, but you’re an idiot,” Mick informs him, his tone light. Jim closes his eyes tightly and laughs loudly, finally letting himself let go of all the anxiety, all the uncertainty. He feels about a million pounds lighter when he lets himself open his eyes and look at Mick again.

“I’ve wanted to do that for-fucking-ever,” he says quietly, and Mick nods.

“I know. I’ve been waiting for you to do it yourself, but I guess you’re too much of a chickenshit,” he tells him, and Jim is immediately nodding. 

“I absolutely am too much of a chickenshit. You know me well enough to know that,” he says, making Mick laugh again. He nods, tugging playfully on the length of Jim’s beard.

“Did you come over here tonight just to con me into making the move myself?” Mick asks, and Jim shakes his head. 

“No, but I’m not sorry either.”

“Me neither,” Mick confirms, leaning in to kiss him again. 

“You really think I’m beautiful?” Jim mumbles into Mick’s lips, and he can almost hear Mick roll his eyes. 

“Shut the fuck up, Peach.”

Jim laughs into the kiss, letting himself melt fully into it.

**Author's Note:**

> wheresyoursavior.tumblr.com


End file.
